


Put to Good Use

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aging, Banter, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Chicago (City), Curtain Fic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff, Force Choking, House Hunting, M/M, Old Married Couple, Older Characters, Oral Sex, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Series, Rough Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After angels and demons and things that go bump in the night, Sam and Dean want a place of their own. </p><p>Finding a place is easier said than done; and settling somewhere isn't taken lightly. They take a chance on the city Death spared because he liked the pizza. The boys settle in a Mexican neighborhood just south of the Loop called Pilsen. Sam looks back at how they got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put to Good Use

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Someway or another you've stumbled upon the Chicago Verse--welcome! 
> 
> This is an open-ended verse, which I add to from time to time. I do take requests for it so if you have a domestic prompt for this verse, I'd love to hear it. :D I'll be going through and editing this Verse, since it's one of the first things I wrote for fandom. <3
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
>  
> 
> (Somewhat spoiler alert? Kevin lives in this Verse. /sniffs/)

**Put to Good Use**

Sam blows Dean for the first time ever in a motel room off Route 66. 

Twelve years old, Sam lacked talent and finesse, but his enthusiasm made up for it. That, and he knew not to use his teeth. He knew that much at least. 

Forty years old, Sam likes to think his skills have improved over time. Learning has been half the fun. Like the time he tried deep throating Dean in the middle of the night, two weeks after that first blow job, and he spent thirty minutes quietly hacking and coughing. Dad was in the room next door, but they still didn’t need him barging in and barking orders--or discovering what exactly they did after lights out. 

Sam smiles. How long ago was John ‘Dad’? 

Sam leans against the Impala, waiting on Dean to finish paying for the room. Before they left the room, Sam forked over the last of his cash and took Dean’s fake cards. Using cash allows them two things: to vanish and to get straight. No fake cards. No scams. They’ve lied long enough, and will most likely lie again, but there’s no wrong in trying. 

Neither Dean nor Sam really lied to John about what went on; they just never went out of their way to mention it. How does anyone formulate those words? Those difficult truths? No one’s made a Hallmark card out of it just yet.

During their first experience crossing a line they both knew understood to be a warning, was the second domino effect in their lives. Any chance they could, they perfected something Sam still has no name for. It seems like turning forty should have brought with it concrete answers and definitions. Or at least some kind of label for this thing between them. Dean reminds him on the daily that he’s four years older and still hasn’t got all the answers.

Those reminders never seem to reassure anyone.   
  
Sam stubs out the cigarette in his right hand. This damn motel can’t afford to provide ashtrays. Sam was this close to wandering through the motel in search of one or something comparable. Most people think Dean’s the smoker. 

Receipt in hand, Dean returns, still groggy from the lack of coffee this morning and the shitty spring mattresses. They could’ve afforded something nicer, but it’s increasingly depressing paying for all these temporary walls and mysteriously stained shag carpets.    
  
“You stink,” Dean tells Sam, waving away the smell of tobacco and tar.    
  
“You like it,” Sam quips. He searches for a stick of gum in his coat.   
  
“Fuck, no,” Dean grumbles. With a shrug of his shoulders, a brief rustle of his coat, he pulls Sam in for a kiss, licking into his mouth with a hand fisted into the front of Sam’s shirt. Dean lets him go, licking his lips. He can’t release without adding a small shove backwards, leaving Sam breathless and in a slightly different spot from where he first was. 

“Gross.”

“Then quit kissing me.”

“Even grosser.”    
  
These mornings bring with them a smoky sense of deja vu. Dirty water stretches across the parking lot from a thunderstorm that rolled through here two days prior. The lines on the parking lot are barely visible, and those that are look like chalk body outlines on the cracked asphalt. This is just another motel, another building, another yellowed, fading, molding foundation. Martha Stewart wouldn’t last sixty seconds here, and not just because of the puke green color of the siding. Sam pins Dean against the Impala, grabbing onto rough denim lapels, and demands further fusion of their mouths. The exchange of smoke spit for mouthwash spit happens without hesitation or any fight at all.   
  
Sam started smoking at Stanford. It became a way to adjust to Normal. 

John never let them smoke. Worst thing a hunter could do, besides kill another hunter. Might as well shoot yourself in the lungs on a hunt, because spirits never took breathers. It was, to John, a foul habit that demonstrated lack of self control. 

Jack Daniels, though, there was never any complaint about him.   
  
Jess didn’t smoke but didn’t care that he did. He only ever went through entire packs during finals—or right after a phone call from Dean—and he was careful never to smoke in her apartment. When they shared a place, he smoked outside on their tiny balcony, looking out at Palo Alto with visions of the future. In those moments of chosen isolation, he recognized moments throughout his years of Stanford when his smiles had been forced. These moments were significant to Sam, who had never before forced himself to smile so often. It wasn’t done the way he was raised. If he was unhappy, he made it known. There was no point in forcing a smile with John or Dean. 

Civilian life, however, required it. It demanded small talk, white lies, and carefully controlled emotions.

It wasn’t completely unpleasant. Those unspoken social niceties weren’t impossible to maintain. It just wasn’t Sam. 

How painful the lesson.   
  
And still, how necessary.   
  
* * *    
  
Somehow, Sam and Dean move to Chicago, otherwise known to Dean as the place Death spared because the pizza was just that good. 

Dean eats at that infamous shop every Thursday. Stubborn and set in his ways, Dean occupies his usual booth and  deep dish personal pie, even though the tomato sauce gives him heartburn. To Dean, if the pizza was that good that it spared the lives of millions of people, it’s worth a little pain.. Sam will occasionally admit that it’s good pizza, but prefers thin crust to the deep dish stuff. To Sam, deep dish is something served to friends from out of town, not everyday food.

Finding their way to Chicago was no easy journey.

Dean fought Sam nearly every step of the way.   
  
“You’ll make no soccer mom out of me, fucker,” Dean had growled at him more than once on their search for suitable housing. 

The bunker—their first home after so much chaos—they decided to give to Kevin.   
  
For a few years, Sam and Dean drove cross-country, just like before, living in each other's back pockets and enjoying the freedom that came with being perpetual tourists. Venturing from city to city, town to town, was far less stressful without the weight of hunting on their shoulders. Sure, they killed a creature or two, did some salt and burns along the way, but for the most part they kept to their own agendas. As civilians, they caught concerts and sports games and movies at drive-ins.

They  _ did _ visit the world's largest ball of yarn and  _ did _ see the site of the world's largest pastrami sandwich. Instead of arriving to a destination to exterminate something that went bump in the night, Sam found most of his days were spent exterminating Dean's sour moods and snarky comments about fanny-packs and Kodak Moments. Sam can't quite remember when a motel room ceased being an adequate residence but he does remember that Iowa City was their first stop looking for a cheap, decent place to have a mailbox.   
  
Dean had everything negative to say about the first place they viewed, a one bedroom apartment in a run-down neighborhood in Iowa City. “I don’t like the color in the kitchen,” Dean had muttered, barely looking at the walls.   
  
“We can paint the kitchen,” Sam countered. “Don’t bitch about the little details, Dean.”   
  
“Fuck this place, Sam. I’m telling you I don’t like the color and that’s fucking it.”   
  
The agent gaped at them both and excused herself, leaving Sam to deal with Dean by himself. Of course they both had issues about settling down. Issues that they rarely talked about openly. Winchester legacy of ignoring emotions aside—there was a big issue that Sam had to confront in that cheap apartment in Iowa City.   
  
Dean didn’t want to paint. 

He didn’t want to buy a fixer upper. He didn’t want to fix leaky pipes or deal with installing new carpet. 

It hit Sam then and there: they weren’t in their twenties anymore. They hadn’t been able to pass as college students for years. Mortality was staring them in their faces and laughing after so many years of being mocked. The day would inevitably arrive when they would both be unable to run around chasing monsters. Who did that in their seventies? Crazy people.  _ Who did that at all _ , was a better question but Sam left that aside. One epiphany at a time.   
  
Thirty-six years old, Sam sat down on the floor of the kitchen with the ugly color and stared at his hands. 

Shit. 

When had he-- _ they _ \--gotten old? The Winchester boys had, in all honesty, never expected to live this long.   
  
The Family Business was fine to keep up for the longest time; it was best to keep moving. It was habit, simply put, and old habits die hard. But now? Rented rooms weren’t cutting it anymore and they had run out of tourist traps to visit.   
  
“You’re right,” Sam admitted, staring at one grotesque kitchen wall. “It’s fucking awful.”   
  
“That’s what I’m saying,” Dean replied curtly.   
  
From then on, they took their time in their search for a base of operations ( _ home? _ ). Not just any apartment or townhome or condo or dwelling would do. There were moments when Sam had to remind himself there was no point in looking for places if he’d strangled Dean because of his stupid comments about the paint or the tile or the carpeting or any of the other hundred things that were supposedly wrong with a place.   
  
Those were also the days when Sam smoked an entire pack in angry little huffs beside the Impala, his arms crossed over his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Dean tried not to care; he angrily looked away and waited for Sam to finish. Smoking had never ever been allowed inside Baby.   
  
Eventually, they wound their way to Chicago, the first big city on their journey for a place ( _ home? _ ).   
  
“Winter is shit out here,” Dean grumbled as they climbed four flights of stairs to view an apartment.   
  
Their agent, a petite redhead with a bright smile, tried to deflect that comment with a friendly joke. “Well, you know what they say about Chicago weather,” she chirped. “Just wait five minutes and it’ll change.” That had only garnered her a glare and an eventual dismissal of the apartment from Dean.

They looked at four with that agent before she crumbled and pulled Sam aside after the fourth showing.   
  
“Look, I understand folks who want a fully furnished place,” she said, a crack in her usual cheerful tone. “But your partner is… he’s…”   
  
“A pain in the ass,” Sam finished for her with a decisive nod. 

She hesitated, but rightly agreed. “If you could just give me some kind of insight about what he’s looking for?  _ Really _ looking for?”   
  
He had the conversation with her outside, so he could smoke while he told her what might possibly work for his partner ( _ brother _ ).   
  
Fast forward four years, and Sam Winchester is mowing the lawn. Not that there’s much to mow, but he doesn’t want a ticket from the city about the fucking grass. It’s been two weeks and if they let it go another week, Sam fears for small dogs and children.   
  
Turns out the redheaded realtor was able to pull it off.   
  
When the Impala pulled up to the tiny-- _ really _ tiny--house, Sam was sure it’d turn out like all the others. It looked too small, too cramped, too stifling. He imagined himself bumping into walls and doorways every time he turned around. And he could almost hear the “no” rolling off Dean’s tongue. 

There were plenty of other places to look, but Sam chose this neighborhood to start off with because he liked that it had its own museum and the ten minute distance from the Loop. The neighborhood stuck out to him the first time they drove through, snaking their way up north from Joliet. 

The plan was to search there first and then spread out to Humboldt Park or Logan Square, and if worse came to worst they could swing through suburbs that still had a city feel to them--Cicero, Oak Park, Berwyn. Further out was too much like the rest of the country they'd driven through. If not here, it was easy enough to start again somewhere else. Sam appreciated of that aspect to their upbringing; nomadic life was easy for them.

  
Reading off the printed information from the realtor, Sam announces, “Says it’s got two bedrooms, two baths.” She had chosen to stay behind on that showing, thinking that Dean might be more inclined to say yes to something without someone there pressuring him. Sam hadn’t thought of that aspect.   
  
“Where?” Dean asked, squinting to look at the house from the Impala. “Barely any room in there, Sam.”   
  
“Maybe it’s bigger on the inside.”   
  
Dean gave a short, sharp laugh. “Ten or nothing.”   
  
Sam ignored the Doctor Who reference. No need to feed into Dean’s antics. They climbed out and began their preliminary inspection of the house, which actually  _ was _ bigger than it seemed. But maybe living in motel rooms had skewed their perception of big. In any case, being inside the place didn’t immediately make Sam claustrophobic. Fortunately, the ceilings were high and the layout made sense. What little furniture inside was arranged so that it had good feng-shui, according to the print out.    
  
They split up; Sam looked at the bedrooms and Dean went to the kitchen.   
  
The rooms were sparse compared to motels jam-packed with oddities. No detail was particularly fancy, just the necessities. However, overall, it was open and clean. 

 

There wasn’t much noise on the street at five in the afternoon, which Sam considered a plus. He examined the two bathrooms, glanced at the plumbing, and checked for mold and grime. The house had been on the market for just a few days and there were options: renting, rent-to-own, or buying the place outright. Any of those would work, but Sam wanted to see the insides, not the hardwood floors and countertops. His focus hinged on signs of haunting or disturbances; he checked the house like he had been trained to do— old habits die hard _ —  _ and knew without a doubt that Dean was doing the same in his own cranky way.   
  
Finished, they met outside in the backyard--a small, fenced-off plot of grass.   
  
“Well?” Sam asked, tensed up, braced for a list of rejections.   
  
Dean glanced over. Everything in his eyes was familiar, harkening back to the dim lighting underneath scratchy motel sheets. Sam shuddered. 

 

It was one of  _ those _ looks. 

 

Before he knew it, they were in the largest of the two bedrooms and he was giving Dean one of  _ the _ wettest, filthiest blow jobs. His knees rested on the slick, shiny hardwood floor, while his mouth was full and spit ran down his chin. Tears welled up in his eyes.

 

The place had to be theirs.    
  
Above him, Dean panted, eyes shut tight, one hand on the back of Sam’s head, threaded in his hair. With the other hand pressed against Sam’s cheek, Dean could feel himself there, heavy in Sam’s mouth. He seized the opportunity of Sam’s open throat--occupying every space. The blunt tip of his cock pounded against a certain, sensitive spot towards the back, and he added pressure with every rough, commanding thrust forward.

 

Sam has a limit— he’d learned it, tested it, by the time he turned sixteen. But he held back from it until pain began to overwhelm pleasure, lap by lap like a tide. He made a small noise of warning. Dean languidly opened his eyes. Sam saw something in them he’d have to ask about later.   
  
On his knees, however, it was hardly the time to ask, Sam groaned, and made his eyes flutter, catching Dean’s direct gaze for a split second. 

 

In turn, Dean sighed at the sight, his cock responding in kind with a twitch. He rocked backwards, easing some of the pressure off, and allowed Sam to suckle at the sensitive crown. Enjoying the attention, he brushed Sam’s hair out of his eyes, tucking those stubborn strands back. 

 

Sam showed his appreciation--and swallowed Dean down to the base in one elegant, effortless motion. 

 

Brushing Sam’s hair back no longer mattered afterwards. Dean fucked Sam’s throat in a rhythm so demanding, Sam’s hair shook out of its ponytail. Sam closed his eyes and focused--focused on being open, being used, being claimed by Dean. And Dean, like always, gave until it hurt. 

 

Dean came in spurts down Sam’s throat and shuddered when he heard Sam choke on the deluge. He remained firmly buried, forcing Sam to utilize the muscles in his throat, until every drop of come had been worked out of his cock.

 

He eased out with care. 

 

And Sam looked up, slightly dazed, mouth slick with come and spit. He didn’t let Dean pull out entirely without a wet smack and pop of his lips. 

  
Dean only said one thing to Sam in those few moments after. 

“Get the bags, Sammy.”   
  
* * *    
  
Periodically, Sam thinks about his relationship with Dean. He attempts to see it objectively.   
  
Some people would be horrified to know that he started having sex with his older brother at the age of twelve. That there was this one time, right after a waitress at a diner cooed over them and said they looked so much alike, that Dean fucked him in the alley behind that diner until Sam was seeing and coming stars. 

Sam was fifteen, then.   
  
Some people would be horrified to know that the reason why Sam’s knees hurt from time to time wasn’t from an old hunting injury, but because Dean is a man who loved to get blown, preferably at least once a day.   
  
Objectively, Sam could see that whatever was between them, that tangible something even his twelve-year-old self could recognize, most people didn’t care for. But in turn, he didn’t care for their opinions. Only Dean’s.   
  
Sam treats himself to an after-mowing smoke, his hair tied back. Sweat makes his shirt press against his chest. He waves to Mrs. Martinez next door— she is planting flowers and tomatoes, which they will most likely see some of— and she waves back.   
  
Creatures, monsters, and humans filled with ill-will still exist. Shit happens every day, with and without the Winchesters. They pick up the occasional hunt, mostly during the summer when Dean’s knee doesn’t ache so much. However, they remain contentedly reserved in their own little piece of the world.   
  
It’s a ten-minute walk to the nearest L stop--the pink line 18th Street stop. A Latino grocery store sits a few blocks over, alongside a park and a block of shops for everything from books to candles to strong Cuban coffee. Sam can take the L and be at the Art Institute downtown in twenty minutes. Or he can walk over to the park and play a game of basketball before wandering into the café that serves the best iced coffee he’s ever had.

Theirs has not been an easy life.

No one who lists Route 66 as a childhood address can truly claim a life of luxury.    
  
From the sliding door, Dean shouts out, “You comin’ in any time soon, Sasquatch?”

Sam laughs, shakes his head, and pushes the mower up to the house. He’ll put it away later. “Just doin’ your job, old man,” Sam banters back.   
  
“Hey, I could mow, but I figure you owe me. Y’know, I am the older sibling.”   
  
“Oh, so teaching me how to blow you was part of that, huh?”   
  
Dean blushes-- _ seriously, he does _ \--for a moment and smirks. The tension in Sam’s chest lets up; in this moment, guilt and the opinions of others don’t matter. They are past that.    
  
Lewdly grabbing his crotch, Dean replies with an all too easy, “Hell, yes, Sammy m’boy.”   
  
Sam shoves him into their house and closes the sliding door behind him.   
  
Everything his twelve year old self wanted is here. It took a while and cost them each more than he cares to think about, but it’s all here. Being put to good use.   
  



End file.
